


Between My Hands

by Lexigent



Category: All's Well That Ends Well - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexigent/pseuds/Lexigent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the prompts was for what Helena is thinking during any of the scenes, so here is what she might be thinking during her conversation with the King in Act II Scene 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between My Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jenn_Calaelen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenn_Calaelen/gifts).



I am waiting in a cold, draughty chamber, like all the King’s suitors. The guards looked me up and down as I entered and not for the first time I cursed the womanly flesh I was born into. My father’s name commanded their respect, however, and I was assured I will be heard.

I rub the phial of medicine between my fingers for want of something better to do, and to keep my hands from shaking. It’s not only the King’s health, but my own future that is at stake here.

I never understood what Father meant when he spoke of those he lost against his will when I was growing up, but now it’s clear. But words are better medicine than what’s in my phial, and more familiar to me, so I’ll try my luck if it comes to that. It may be just the stubbornness of age, which I can reason with. Goodness knows I had to do it more than once.

Worse, it’s some infirmity of mind, but this, I think, we would have had word of. Kings have their eccentricities, but when they lose the command of their senses, that’s when the whispers start.

Worst and most difficult of all, it is that he has convinced himself that he does not deserve to live. It’s not that I don’t have faith, or religion, but people’s insistence that we are all poor sinners that never deserved to live in the first instance does not seem a good foundation to build a life on. It’s not a fit philosophy for a physician, at any rate, but those who are possessed of it are hard to shake.

I am called forth and escorted toward the royal chamber. I could find it on my own, for I would only have to walk towards warmth.

My escort speaks highly of me and winks at me as he leaves the room. I clench and unclench my hands and make it look as though I’m warming them up when really I want to strike him for the insolence.

The king is still a commanding presence, even in his infirmity, and I bow and curtsey as I was taught, hoping he will be kinder than most men and let me finish a sentence.

From the first words we exchange, it’s clear that he is still sound of mind, and I thank my good stars for that. I’d expected a dismissal on grounds of his best doctors having tried their best, even after mentioning my father’s name. I think better of telling him how many of the “learned college” are quacks and instead offer to turn back on the spot. I was announced, he wouldn’t have let me in this far had he not wanted to see me at all, so maybe this will work. It’s like playing with animals: they only become interested in the food you offer them when you draw it just out of their reach.

I need to find out if he’s convinced he doesn’t deserve to be cured. If he does not have this idea from his own superstitions, then in all probability, someone with prospects from his death has put this flea in his ear. Not that I am much interested in court intrigue, but I have heard enough of Father’s stories of sick elders miraculously cured once he made them decline the food their sons and daughters brought them. I can’t presume too much though, and so I decide to appeal to his superstition.

As I had hoped it would, this tactic goes through to him. The worst part of the battle is behind me, I think, but I caution myself against feeling too triumphant because all is not over yet.

Of course he asks me when he’ll get better, in the manner of sick men, and I give him the twenty-four hour speech. I cannot tell how severe it is with him without a proper examination, and there isn’t a chance I will get to perform that. At least, there should be marked improvement over the space of a day.

I clench my fists as I venture my life for his. It is not a wager any physician should have to make, and it would never have been asked of my father, or indeed, any man. Yet, if this medicine fails, I lose not only my own good name but also do my father a dishonour, and any hope to make my fortune will be lost as well. I won’t even get started on Bertram. Truth is, I’d rather someone take my life other than myself.

The King finally agrees, and I exhale and nearly drop my phial. And yet, there’s more: I’m not just offered a reward, I get to ask my heart’s desire. I briefly wonder if my life has turned fairy-tale and come to the conclusion that, probably, yes, so I do as any fairy-tale prince would and ask for half the kingdom and the princess’ hand in marriage. Except with different pronouns, and maybe I leave out the bit about half the kingdom. I have a king’s life in my hands already.

 I feel a little light-headed after I’ve asked for Bertram in so many words, and wonder if the world is shaking at its edges and preparing to turn over – and yet, I think, this is how it is for men, all the time, they just take for granted that their wish is their command and that their chosen wives will obey and follow them in all. I have so often wished myself a man, but now I have this power, it nearly overwhelms me. I’m grateful when I get to administer the medicine – this is a power over men’s lives which I know. I’m sure the other will sit more easily with me once the treatment has run its course.

I have been given a chamber for the night, so I retreat to wait. Yet I can find no sleep until it is near morning.


End file.
